Dirty
by Bitter Baristas
Summary: Peter is raped. Deadpool comforts him.


He's drunk when it happens. Hell, that's why it happens. He didn't know drinking would weaken his powers; he's never been drunk before. But he's pretty sure that's not how it's supposed to be. He wonders if they drugged him.

He can't move, can't scream. The party rages as he's led upstairs by Flash and two other boys he doesn't recognize because his vision is swimming. Hands are stroking him gently, its relaxing. He only fights when they start to take of his clothes. Duct Tape is slapped over his mouth and he _can't breathe_. He can't comprehend what's happened. Flash is a bully, a bad person, but a _rapist_? His head is spinning and his heart is pounding. He blacks out.

When he wakes up he feels a tearing pain in his rear that crawls up his back. His hands are bound together with dull grey Duct Tape and his arms are too heavy to move. Spider-Man could have escaped this, but Peter Parker is helpless. They must have given him a high dosage of whatever it was, and if he didn't have a healing factor he'd probably be dead.

When they leave him, broken and bleeding, he wishes he was dead. He picks up his shattered pieces, pulls on his clothes, and leaves through the window. He goes home and cries. He showers until his skin is red and there's no more hot water. Vomit fills his throat and he retches until there's nothing left inside him.

He has never felt so worthless, so dirty.

He doesn't tell May. He doesn't tell Mr. Stark or the police. He doesn't even tell Flash, although he does convey his feeling via a few kidney punches. Flash doesn't tell anyone about the beating, and looks strangely remorseful when Peter quits the decathlon team. Any name calling and bullying stops.

Peter has nightmares. Eating causes a revolt in his stomach and always ends in vomiting. It's easier not to eat. He pretends to be fine for May, who senses his turmoil but has no idea of its extent.

Peter doesn't tell anyone close to him.

Until he does.

He's crouched on a fire escape, watching the city, when he hears the familiar sounds of someone coming up behind him.

"Spidey, where you been homeboy?"

Deadpool.

Peter says nothing.

The mercenary had become a friend, an off and on partner over the last two years. The man appeared out of nowhere one day, said he was a big fan, and they just sort of started hanging out as Spider-Man and Deadpool. That was two years ago, when Peter was sixteen. He's eighteen now, and at his first real highschool party he'd been raped.

The bruises and lesions have faded, but he can still feel their hands on him.

"We're friends, right?" Peter asks suddenly. Deadpool sits heavily beside him, legs swinging over the platform.

"That's what I tell everyone." He says dreamily. Peter nods mutely. "Why, have a tragic origin story to dump on me? A horrible secret? Come on, we're friends, I won't… well I'll judge, probably loudly, too. But tell your old pal Wade what's on your mind."

"I was raped." The words, trapped in his clenched jaw for weeks, spring free. "I got drunk and probably drugged at a party and three guys took me upstairs and put Duct Tape on my mouth. I passed out and when I woke up one of them was inside of me." He starts talking and can't stop. He doesn't notice that he's trembling, hyperventilating, until he hears Deadpool's voice, steady like a rock in an ocean storm.

Hands, gentle and grounding, grip his shoulders. "Breathe, Spidey. Breathe. Calm down."

"Peter." He blurts. "My name is Peter, Wade." Deadpool seems to smile under his mask.

"Nice to meet you, Peter. Come on, keep breathing."

The tightness in his chest loosens and he sucks in a deep breath, realizing his cheeks are wet. "Better?" Deadpool asks kindly.

He nods and those hands retract. "Good. Now I'm gonna need some names, Spidey."

"No!" Peter says to quickly. "You can't kill them."

"Oh, but I can. With my katanas, or my guns, or even just my hands. Killings kind of my specialty."

"I don't want you to kill them." Peter clarifies, a smile threatening to curl his lips from Deadpool just being himself. "I beat one of them up," he adds guiltily. "I didn't know the other two. I think… I think he's sorry."

"Not as sorry as he should be." Deadpool mutters darkly. "Petey-pie, sweetheart, they need to die. Give up the one and he'll give up the other two. I don't even have to kill them, just let me castrate them."

"Please, Wade." Peter's voice is soft, pleading. "Can you just… listen?"

Deadpool heaves a sigh and his hand moves from his katana. "Okay, Spidey. But… how about we go somewhere else? 'S kinda cold out here."

Peter agrees gratefully and they go to Wade's disaster of an apartment. Dirty dishes infest the kitchen and junk clutters every available surface. It smells like musk and gun powder and Mexican food and it feels _safe_.

"Spidey?" When he doesn't get a response Deadpool tries again, louder. "Petey?"

"Huh?" Peter's head snaps towards the voice. Deadpool looks at him, worried expression visible beneath his mask. "I…" He finds the words escape him suddenly. He doesn't know what to say and things just start pouring out. "I want to die." He's surprised to hear himself say this, but he can't deny that's how he feels. He crumples to his knees, the facade of normalcy he's kept up crashing around him. "I feel dirty and used and I can't sleep or eat. I just want it to stop."

He bawls. Eyes scrunched shut, body shaking bawls.

"Peter," Deadpool sounds close. "Peter, would it be okay if I hugged you?"

Peter blubbers and nods. Warmth encompasses him. Deadpool sits crossed legged, Peter in his lap. The man's body curls protectively around him. "I'm so sorry that happened to you. I'm here, I'm here for you." He rocks gently, strong arms giving comfort instead of fear.

"I'm tired." Peter whispers. He remembers the paring knife he'd stolen from the kitchen, hidden and unused under his mattress. He kept in there, just in case… he wasn't even sure if slitting his wrists would kill him, but it could be worth a try. He remembers cash burning a hole in his pocket as he debated buying enough heroin to overdose on. A gun, he reasoned, wouldn't be hard to snag off of a criminal and one shot to the head ought to do it-

"Stop talking." Wade growls. "Stop fucking talking, Peter."

Had he been talking? He really was tired. "You can't kill yourself, Peter. The world needs you. Not Spider-Man, _you_. I… I need you. You're my best friend. I promise you things will get better. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but you need to fucking live and I'll do everything I can to help you."

He's crying, Peter realizes. Wade is crying because he's scared of losing him.

"Yeah," he rasps. "Okay. I'll try. I won't… y'know." He tries to smile. "Someone needs to keep you in check."

Wade sniffs, makes a sound that could be a laugh. "Damn right, baby boy."


End file.
